


The Prince, the tower and the Tsarevich

by gothyringwald



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: Illya supposes he should be alarmed that it is a prince in the tower, not a princess, but only finds himself relieved. He wonders how to wake the man so he can rescue him. A kiss is usually involved, he thinks. Illya's eyes drift to the man's plush pink lips and his cheeks fill with heat. He shakes his head. Kissing an unconscious man seems, to him, the opposite of noble and brave. But what to do then?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been feeling a bit uninspired with my fic, lately, so I turned to original fic and started a 30 day flash fiction challenge. And then one prompt - 'steampunk sleeping beauty' - ended up as a Napollya fic when I was planning it in my head. Ha.
> 
> It's not particularly steampunk, to be honest, (because I know basically nothing about steampunk) but I did the challenge more to get myself writing than anything. The initial story – or draft – took about half an hour. I've polished it up a bit but didn't spend too much more time on it.

Tsarevich Illya steps lightly off his airship onto the tower's window ledge, wobbling momentarily before righting himself, gripping the edges of the window with strong hands. His boots click-clack on the stone floor as he jumps down, ducking so his tall frame will fit through. He pushes his goggles to sit on top of his head and looks around. A thick layer of dust covers the room, cobwebs hang in every corner, but there is little else to be seen. Dust billows up around him as he turns on the spot. He coughs. 

The room appears to be an antechamber so he takes off his cloak, hangs it on a nearby hook and heads for the door on the opposite side. The door is of a heavy, dark wood, the handle ornate, but it doesn't budge under his hand. Illya curses and reaches for the toolkit stowed in his belt, trying one tool after another with little success. He thinks longingly of the small explosive device he had wanted to bring, but which his father had told him wouldn't be necessary, and scowls.

He feels a bit foolish, truth be told. It hadn't been his idea to go on this quest to rescue a princess in a tower but apparently his parents (and all the subjects) expected him to go on a quest to rescue a princess in a tower so off he had gone in his airship. And, now, here he is, wrestling with a stubborn lock in a door that, for all he knows, leads to an empty room.

Finally, the mechanism tumbles and clicks and the door gives way under his hand with a loud creak. Illya steps into the next room. It is much darker with no windows, the only light spilling in from the antechamber. There is a dial on the wall, next to the door, which Illya turns and, miraculously, the room is flooded with warm, soft light from the gas lights overhead. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust but, when they do, his breath catches in his throat. In the centre of the room, on a bed hung with thick velvet curtains, lies the most beautiful man the tsarevich has ever seen. 

He moves closer so he can see the man better. Illya swallows thickly as his eyes travel over the sleeping form. A gold coronet rests in dark curls, and he wears a doublet and breeches of deep blue brocade, a stark contrast to his pale skin. Long, graceful fingers rest, clasped together, over his stomach. His shoulders are broad and, even lying down, it is clear that he is tall.

Illya supposes he should be alarmed that it is a prince in the tower, not a princess, but only finds himself relieved. He wonders how to wake the man so he can rescue him. A kiss is usually involved, he thinks. Illya's eyes drift to the man's plush pink lips and his cheeks fill with heat. He shakes his head. Kissing an unconscious man seems, to him, the opposite of noble and brave. But what to do then?

Illya sighs and sits on the bed, dust puffing up around him. Light glints off something shiny, sitting on a brass plinth, and it takes a moment for Illya to realise it's a holovid. An old model, yes, but a holovid all the same.

Curious, he stands, and moves over to it. He turns the small crank on the side to power it, then presses the 'play' button, though he can't believe it will still work. He is surprised, then, when an image of the man lying on the bed flickers to life and starts to talk. He has a deep, lovely voice.

'If you are watching this vid,' the man says, 'you are likely here to rescue the princess in the tower. Well, surprise! I'm a prince, not a princess.' He waves and winks. Illya smiles. The man is even more handsome talking and moving.

'Prince Napoleon, to be exact. If my gender doesn't bother you, a kiss would be great as that damn evil witch Victoria has cursed me with a magical slumber – completely unoriginal if you ask me - and I would rather be awake.' Napoleon pauses. 'Oh. But don't be offended if I don't. Apparently it has to be 'true love's kiss'. Or so said the crone in the woods who foresaw this happening. Anyway pucker up and give it a go, would you?'

The vid flickers and starts over from the beginning. Illya presses a button to pause it and looks back over to the sleeping form. Well, he supposes, he has permission – a plea, even – to kiss the prince from the very man himself and that's what he came for, after all, isn't it? To save the princess in the tower – saving the prince would be just as well and much preferable to Illya.

And all it will take is one kiss. Hopefully. 

He moves back to the bed on shaking legs and sits gingerly on the edge. He raises a hand to the other man's face but stops as he sees his glove. He takes one off, then the other, placing them on the burgundy silk bedspread. Napoleon is so still, it's hard to believe he's alive but his skin is warm beneath Illya's hand as he skates his knuckles along the prince's cheek.

The tsarevich sucks in a deep breath. His heart rate picks up and his palms start sweating as he leans over the sleeping man. He sits up and bites his lip. What if it doesn't work? Or it does work, and Napoleon wishes someone else had woken him? Illya shakes himself. Right, he thinks, faint heart never won fair lady, or gentleman in this case, and leans down, again.

A brief electric shock tingles through him as, at last, his lips touch the other man's but nothing else seems to happen. He sits back and frowns. Should he try again? But then the air around him fills with electricity, the light brightens and sparkles, and Prince Napoleon takes in a deep gasping breath, opening his eyes. They are blue and staring right at Illya. Napoleon blinks. A grin spreads over his face.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows as Illya watches, completely bewildered a kiss from him, of all people, had actually woken this man from a magical slumber.

'Well, hello handsome,' says Napoleon, no hint of sleep in his voice. 'You're certainly a welcome sight to wake up to.'

Illya blushes. 'Hello.'

Napoleon sits up fully and reaches back to plump up his pillows. 'It's about time someone came and rescued me. I wonder how long I've been asleep.' He looks around and rolls his shoulders, sighing. He fixes his gaze on Illya, again. 'You're not very talkative, are you?'

'Sorry,' says Illya. 'I am...surprised.'

Napoleon regards him a moment. 'Didn't expect to find a prince?'

Illya shakes his head. 'Well, no, but more surprised the kiss worked.' He blushes, again.

Napoleon laughs. It's a beautiful sound. 'So am I, to be honest.' His face turns thoughtful. 'I suppose that makes you my true love, doesn't it?' Napoleon's eyes dip, coy.

Illya ducks his head. 'I suppose it does.' His heart beats hard. It hadn't occurred to him, despite what Napoleon said on the holovid, but as he thinks about it a pleasant warmth spreads through him. He can't deny that being Napoleon's true love, whatever it may mean, sounds very appealing. 

'What's your name then, my true love?' Napoleon asks with a wink.

'Illya.'

'Illya,' Napoleon repeats, seeming to savour the name on his tongue. 'I like it. I'm Napoleon.'

'I know. I watched the holovid,' Illya says, pointing to the plinth.

'Clever boy.' There is a hint of teasing in his tone as well as approval. 'Is that an accent I detect?'

Illya nods. 'Yes. I travelled far. From the Iron Lands.'

'Well, I'm glad you did.' Napoleon takes Illya's hand. His skin is warm and soft. 'What's say we try that kiss again, now that I'm awake, Illya?'

Illya's stomach swoops. 'I'd like that.'

Napoleon slides his hand up Illya's arm and cups the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. They look at each other for long moments, the air warm between them, before Napoleon pulls Illya down for their second kiss. It is not, perhaps, as magical as their first, but the electric shock tingles through Illya's lips again and, as Napoleon opens his mouth under his, the tsarevich thinks it feels suspiciously like happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! And hope it was enjoyable :)
> 
> Please let me know if there's any bits where it's still in past tense!
> 
> I think I read another Napollya fairytale fic that said Illya was from the Iron Lands – I guess I took that idea from there, which is hopefully OK, but I don't remember the fic to credit it! Sorry. (It's very possibly a fic that's actually no longer on AO3, too).
> 
> Oh, and I just threw holovids in and I guess I was thinking Star Wars but they're not exactly like they are in that – I'm imagining them almost like an old-fashioned phonograph or something.


End file.
